


Morning light

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: ‘I cleared out a drawer for you. Second from the top.’It took Clark a moment to understand what Bruce was talking about, and yet another few seconds for him to process the words, the weight of what Bruce was and wasn’t saying.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 23
Kudos: 232





	Morning light

**Author's Note:**

> turns out I just really love writing soft short Superbat ficlets? So, idk, feel free to comment with prompts or suggestions for More Soft Things. I hope you enjoy!

The morning light was slipping through the crack of the curtains, the cold December sun curling the dust that hung in the air. Clark was getting dressed. He tried to do up his belt as carefully as possible, the prong and frame clanking loudly against each other in the quiet room. Bruce’s breath was even and slow. When the light was turned on, Clark was peering under the bed, reaching to find his sock.

He peeked over the edge of the bed and found Bruce looking at him, half of his face burrowed into his pillow, his gaze both focused and still sleepy. His hair was standing on end and fell in his face.

‘Hi. Good morning. I was trying not to wake you up.’ Clark pulled on his second sock and stood. ‘I have to get to work.’

‘Call in sick. Come back to bed.’ Bruce’s voice was rough with sleep.

As always, as ever, Clark was tempted. Bruce could ask for anything, and Clark’s first instinct was always _yes_. Clark pulled on his undershirt and raised an eyebrow in the direction of the bed.

‘Some of us need to pay rent, you know? And I have a story I need to finish.’

‘The fair housing piece?’ Bruce had his arms wrapped around the pillow, his chin on his upper arm. ‘I’d like to read it when it’s done, if you’ll let me.’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’ Clark was looking for his shirt, scanning the room. ‘I just need to make sure I’m telling the story right. Lois was going to red pen it last night, so I’ve got to go through her edits.’

Bruce hummed.

‘Are you looking for your shirt?’

‘Yeah, do you know where it went?’

Clark wasn’t sure how he managed, but despite barely moving, Bruce shrugged.

‘Wear one of mine. Yours was wrinkled even before you took it off.’

‘Your shirts don’t really fit me,’ Clark pointed out. He declined to mention that it was Bruce who had taken off Clark’s shirt the night before, straddling his lap and kissing each inch of skin as it was exposed.

‘I’ve got a few that would. A looser fit is better at hiding bandages. The neck might be a little tight, but with the top button undone, you’ll be fine. In the closet, to the left.’

Clark ducked into the closet and found the shirts, ranging in colours from white to black. He avoided the greys and muted pink and chose a plain white shirt. Bruce hadn’t been wrong – but when was he ever? – and the shirt fit well enough, the sleeves just a touch too short. The fabric felt much softer than any dress shirt Clark had ever worn. He didn’t want to know how much it cost.

When he returned, Bruce was sitting up, ruffling his hands through his hair. The pillow had left an imprint on his cheek. He looked dishevelled and so human. Clark’s heart ached from just looking at him.

Bruce leaned his head against the headboard, watching Clark get dressed. Over the last few months, since it had begun, Clark had started to grow used to the way Bruce would watch him. Sometimes, he would study his movements like they were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. Other times, he would gaze at him with hungry eyes, and Clark could smell his want. Yet other times – and this was the newest type of look, the one that Clark hadn’t quite figured out yet – he looked at Clark like he was something beautiful, something he wanted to keep safe. This morning was the third kind of gaze.

‘I cleared out a drawer for you. Second from the top.’ 

It took Clark a moment to understand what Bruce was talking about, and yet another few seconds for him to process the words, the weight of what Bruce was and wasn’t saying. Clark swallowed.

‘If you want, of course.’ There was a cautious edge to Bruce’s words, nestled in the smile he threw in Clark’s direction.

Clark sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch Bruce. He let his fingers trail down Bruce’s bare arm, his skin cold under his fingers. Bruce leaned into the touch and closed his fingers over Clark’s, holding him with his hand and his gaze.

‘Yes,’ Clark breathed, saying yes to more than just the empty clothes drawer. ‘Yes, I’ll bring some stuff over next time.’

‘I’ll make sure there’s some hanger space for you. Can’t have you wearing my shirts. Although you do look’ – and Bruce curled a finger around one of the shirt buttons and pulled Clark closer, their noses nudging – ‘very good in them.’

Bruce kissed him, unhurried and sweet, his mouth dry with sleep, his tongue brushing over Clark’s lip. Slow, gentle, dizzying kisses. Clark was definitely going to be late to work. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed.

‘Come over on Saturday.’

‘You always patrol on Saturdays.’

‘The sun sets at four thirty. I’ll do a sweep. Back here by seven. We’ll do take-out and watch one of those cowboy films you like.’

‘ _You_ like them, too.’

Bruce laughed against his skin, kissing his way down his neck. Clark shivered.

‘Stay the night.’ Bruce rested his forehead against Clark’s chest, over his heart, like he was trying to memorise the rhythm. ‘And join us for brunch.’

‘Us?’ Clark asked, carding his fingers through Bruce’s hair. Bruce looked up at him, his eyes soft and the corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

‘The boys come over for brunch on Sundays when they’re in town. I’d like you to be there.’ Bruce watched Clark’s face and waited.

‘As... a friend?’ Clark asked.

Bruce looked away, the same slight smile curling his lip. He plucked at Clark’s shirt, smoothing away invisible dirt.

‘No,’ he began. He licked his lips and rubbed his thumb over the shirt fabric. ‘I think we’re both too old to be _boyfriends_ , and there’s something unavoidably crass about _lovers_. But…’

Clark gave Bruce a moment, two, before he offered:

‘Partners?’

Bruce kissed him.

‘That would work,’ he agreed. ‘Not that we would need to tell them anything, I don’t think. They’re all smart enough to understand what it means for us to come downstairs together, you wearing one of my dressing gowns. They’ll know that this isn’t – a convenience, or something casual. They’ll know you’re here because this is something real. If’ – and again Bruce seemed to hesitate, ‘you want to be here, too.’ 

‘Yes,’ Clark said and kissed him. ‘Yes, I do.’

* * *

‘Well well well,’ Lois drawled when Clark quite literally ran into her in the break room, ‘look what the cat dragged in. You do know work starts at _nine_ , right?’

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it.

‘Traffic was terrible.’

‘You walk to work, Clark.’

‘Okay, my… alarm clock broke?’ he tried again, lying less to convince Lois and more to practice for when Perry would grill him for a good excuse.

‘That _does_ happen,’ Lois conceded. She looked him up and down, a smirk on her face. ‘I like your shirt.’

‘Thanks.’ Clark felt the blush burn up the back of his neck as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Lois squeezed past him and touched his elbow.

‘I covered for you. Told you were double-checking sources for the housing piece. You owe me, Smallville.’ 

‘You’re a lifesaver, Lois.’ 

Lois did a mock-curtsy and left the kitchenette. Seconds later, she was back, peering through the open doorway to address Clark again.

‘So, whatever it was,’ Lois looked him over again, grinning again, ‘was it worth being late to work?’

Clark thought about Bruce. He thought about Saturday night. He thought about Sunday morning.

‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘yes, it was.’


End file.
